


Pripizdit

by thebasement_archivist



Category: The X-Files
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2001-02-15
Updated: 2001-02-15
Packaged: 2018-11-20 06:31:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11330415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebasement_archivist/pseuds/thebasement_archivist
Summary: Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived atThe Basement, which moved to the AO3 to ensure the stories are always available and so that authors may have complete control of their own works. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address onThe Basement's collection profile.





	Pripizdit

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Basement](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Basement), which moved to the AO3 to ensure the stories are always available and so that authors may have complete control of their own works. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Basement's collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thebasement/profile).

 

Pripizdit by Jen Collins

Pripizdit  
by Jen Collins   
Fiesta   
Author's note: Pripizdit is a companion piece to Kal Romine's The Wrong Place, which should be read first for initial character depth and layering. I believe; however, that this story can stand alone.  
Warning: Not for the squeamish as this story deals with rape and pre-adult trauma. Last time I checked, "The Wrong Place" could be found at the MTA archive within the slash Division (http://www.slashcity.com/muldertorture/slash2.html). Beta'd long ago and far away by Carla Palinurus and phyre~; any remaining flubs are mine by choice or accident <g>).  
Disclaimer: Not mine-they wish they were...or maybe not. <g> No, I think I'm nicer to them than their owners; but I do it for love and not cashola.  
Warning: Dark, disturbing, non-consentual, semi-consentual, violence, sex and a plot of sorts, even. <g> Constructive Criticism is the finest feedback a girl could receive. <grins shyly> This story was originally published in X-Plicit Fantasies III in 1999 and I just now got around to doing sumpin' with it. I hope you enjoy it!

* * *

"Pripizdit" (c) 1998 Jen Collins

Prologue:

Krycek remembered the night the roles of teacher/student reversed. The smoker spent the evening fishing for phrases of Russian. Gleeful at the prospect, he bought Krycek shot after shot of vodka, asking how to say this and how to say that. One term he asked for was how you might indicate a beating involving force just shy of fatal. Pripizdit. The smoker mastered it immediately.

:::::::::::::

The American sat smoking in his car; parked on a slummy drag of urban Moscow, watching the haggard group of Soviet teens huddle together on the sidewalk for warmth. Such youths could be found anywhere, to his delight, even in the Soviet Union.

A particular teen caught his attention this evening. The American hit hard on his cigarette, the final inhalation infusing the filter between his lips with heat. He watched the hustler through the stream of exhaled smoke, watched him as he stood apart from the others. He couldn't have been more than sixteen; yet even from across the street, the man perceived intelligence and experience in shuttered green eyes.

The teen slouched against brick, shoulders hunched up around his ears, hands buried in the pockets of his soiled, inadequate jacket.

The American flicked his cigarette into the street and shifted the idling car into gear, pulling a careful U-turn to glide to the opposite curb. Youthful heads turned in his direction- except the sloucher. His sight burned into some distant fantasy, away from the filth and depravity of the Soviet urban decay that surrounded him. The man's lips curled into a cruel smile and he leaned his head out the window, phrasing questions in stilted Russian.

"Izvinitye, pazhalasta, kak vas zavoot? Ya khatyel by vas."

The sloucher ignored him.

Several of the others stood and gathered around the car, itself a clear symbol of power and wealth in 1970's U.S.S.R., speaking rapid-fire Russian the American could not possibly grasp.

"Vy zdyes v pyerviy raz? Kak vam nravitsa, uh?"

"Nyet," the American said, nodding his head toward the disaffected youth. His companions turned to him, the tone of their collective voice clearly advising him to go with the American.

The young man turned slowly, unwilling to leave the comfort of his private thoughts. Turned to see a wealthy, middle-aged man sitting in a car, wearing a chilling smile as he cupped his hand around the flame that lit his cigarette.

Just as the American considered using force to obtain his prey, the sloucher pushed himself off the brick wall with slow contempt and strolled over to the car. He bent into the American's face. "You want a date?" he asked in perfect, dead English.

Better and better. The young Soviet slid into the passenger seat. "What's your name?" the American asked as the car slid away from the curb and into the city.

"What's it to you?"

The crack of backfist rebounding against skin and bone echoed through the car. The boy barely flinched--just rolled back with the blow. He straightened immediately and stared past the windshield in front of him.

"Alexei Krycek," he answered tonelessly.

The American nodded, "Well, my young friend. I've got much to teach you," he stated as one side of his tiny smile tilted up fractionally. "You've just learned your first lesson."

*****

He shook away the memory as he stared down at the his former partner, struggling under the goon who called himself Mick. Krycek saw himself lying there on the floor; he'd been there before, sure. But this was Mulder. The very thought of what came next left Krycek vastly nauseous. He cleared his throat. No choice.

"Hold him tight," he ordered Mick, contempt burning brightly at the other's obvious excitement. He squeezed a generous portion of lube onto his hand as he knelt next to Mulder, holding stiff, slimy fingers out to awkwardly tug down the agent's pants. . Krycek winced at Mulder's howl of pain and horror at his fingers' quick penetration. Uncharted territory. The Superiors watched and Krycek had to make it real, despite the disgust gnawing his gut. It had to be done, for himself and for Mulder, though he knew Mulder would blame him. He wouldn't understand that even if he'd personally refused this assignment, the plan would still have gone through at the hands of someone less...invested.

"Please," Mulder begged, "I don't know what you want, but just...just for God's sake don't do this to me..."

Mulder, shut up. *Please*.

"I think we're breaking him, boy," Krycek snarled for his audience, venom emerging from his rage against the very men for whom this scenario played.

"Right on, boss man."

Krycek prayed fervently for the idiot's silence.

*****

The man never stopped smoking. Each cigarette lit the next with its dying ember, burning to coils of ash in the tray on that cold Soviet evening during which Alex's education began. The American used an array of techniques with items at hand. As a proshmandovka, Alex had been subject to many a humiliation, from fucking to blow jobs to bizarre fetishes too ugly to wrap his young mind around. He'd learned to compartmentalize his experience, to take what happened to him and put it away in a place where he needn't be bothered with it. Alex Krycek lived in the present, when it suited him, and in another place, if circumstances required. But the cigarette smoking man overwhelmed his carefully erected defenses that night.

*****

"Hand me the knife," Krycek said, eliciting a shrill giggle from his cohort that bordered on obscene. He crouched between Mulder's legs, jacking himself...some *knife*...to full attention before pressing into Mulder's anus. Mulder tensed beneath him and he yearned for the capacity to tell him to try to relax, that tensing up would only hurt him more. Ragged breaths shook his chest and his arms could not comfort this man. Not now.

Hatred scorched Krycek as Mick moved around to face their victim, jamming his dick down Mulder's throat. Outrage washed through him...what could he do? He leaned over to fist a handful of Mulder's slick, bloodied hair, pulled back to lift Mulder's face up from the floor. You watching, Bossman?

Mulder squirmed and rolled, trying to vocalize around Mick's thick cock. Krycek yanked harder on Mulder's hair, managing to dislodge Mick's cock from his throat in the process. "No!" Mulder screamed, right on cue, handing Krycek the plausible excuse he'd hoped for in order to dissuade his cohort.

"You're distracting him. Scoot." He received a resentful glare from the idiot and shot back his own of seniority. The younger man moved away.

He felt suddenly glad for the darkness. Glad that it hid the glimmers of emotion that surely ran their course across his face; his grief, his revulsion. Oh, and the gossamer thread of excitement that had been conditioned into him. Mulder's unwilling sphincter locked like a ring of stone around his cock; a product of pain and fear. The sudden hoarse shout of "Rapist!" shocked him from his reverie.

Rapist?

"Shut up, Mulder." His fingers found Mulder's hips; sank into them with bruising strength. His pace quickened angrily.

"Krycek," Mulder accused.

The coddled little prick. He had no idea, no clue, how good he had it. "Shut the fuck up. Goddammit, Mulder, you don't know a fucking thing." He aimed his thrusts deliberately to hurt the other man, to quiet accusations and end thought. His vicious plunges bucked Mulder's hips and the battered agent finally pleaded, "Dammit, Krycek, you don't know what you're doing."

"I know what I'm doing." he hissed, but the plea stung; eliciting sudden, unexpected tears. Alex Krycek hadn't cried for a long, long time.

He brushed them away with an angry flick of his wrist, praying the action went unnoticed by his audience. Praying his audience believed he instead swept away the sweat of his enthusiasm.

*****

The American owned him. He figured it out pretty quickly. He hadn't realized it during the car ride, suspecting only an ugly date. A small price to pay for the mighty American dollar--pyat, he was promised. Five American dollars covered just about anything.

Surely his shrieks shot through the walls of the hotel room. No one disturbed them. Quickly, this man for whom he'd felt only mild disgust became a presence to fear. Not only did he deliver pain, he created a cushion where just the two of them existed, where pleas for mercy and screams of pain went unanswered and unquestioned. The smell of cigarette smoke permeated memories of leather strappings, kicks of sharp-toed shoes, of hands clenching and cocks pumping, hoarse cries and shouts of troubled pleasure.

The cycle repeated itself over the course of the night, and Alex Krycek believed he'd cried himself out. By the end of that first ordeal, he'd learned to disassociate himself from it; the shame, the pain, the fear.

*****

Krycek closed the door behind him after leaving the impromtu conference room. He leaned against it, tilting his head back to rest against the painted wood; taking short, panicky breaths. He closed his eyes against this house as he wrestled his newest anxiety into control. He prayed he'd kept his cool during the meeting. He needed a cigarette. He needed a drink. He needed to see Mulder.

Mulder needed to eat.

Krycek straightened to head for the kitchen--willing his stricken appearance to fall away. Once there, he tried to concentrate on cooking sausages. His face slackened as they started to sizzle and pop in the pan.

The boss' eyes light in twisted pleasure as Krycek enters the dimly lit conference room. He welcomes cheerily, his cigarette wielding arm gestures, sit down, sit down. Tension hangs thicker in the air than the clouds of smoke. His own face armors itself in blankness as he takes his seat next to the bastard, the rasputnik. No, no. He was...turning...hashbrowns. The smoker watches him, just watches, and smokes. Watches him until he finally blurts, "What?"

The subtle shift in the smoker's smile as he straightens from his sprawled posture on the chair and leans toward Krycek is consistent with his casual, thoughtful words. "We remain.....unconvinced of your enthusiam regarding your current assignment."

Krycek gives a tiny, frustrated shake of his head, "Why?" he demands incredulously, but he knows why, he knows, which means *they* know, they must have...

"Agent Mulder's lab results indicate an inordinately....unbalanced blood to semen ratio."

Krycek says nothing, just maintains his facial armor, as the words 'I'm caught! I'm caught!' skitter through his brain. He waits motionlessly. The smoker settles back into his chair, chainlighting a new cigarette from the old one. They study one another for an endless moment. Tiny beads of sweat form on his upper lip.

The smoker heaves a sigh, balances his cigarette on the edge of his ashtray and says, "Come here, Alex."

Krycek obeys automatically and he's standing looking down at the smoker.

"Opustis' na koleni." the smoker barks. Puzzled, Krycek obeys, lowering himself to his knees. "And remove your jacket and shirt." He and the smoker lock eyes as he rids himself of his clothing. "Lift up your left arm." Conditioning forces Krycek's arm straight up in the air. He feels vaguely foolish, like a television schoolboy raising his hand for his teacher because he knows the answer. Slowly, deliberately, the smoker lifts his cigarette from the ashtray to crush its glowing ember into the pit of the younger man's arm. Bright pain and the odor of charred hair and flesh mingles with the ever-present bite of nicotine.

Unease nags the back of Krycek's mind. What is this? He cannot be broken in this manner.

The cigarette withdraws, dead. The rasputnik, the huysos moves in an unhurried manner, always. He places the cigarette stub in the ashtray. He leans back in his chair and makes direct eye contact. "Get dressed."

He rises, performing a quick about-face from his Superiors. He reaches for his t-shirt and pops his head through the opening. Snaking out of sleeves with swift economy, his arms follow suit. He uses this efficient, mindless task to regain himself. By the time he slips into his jacket and pivots gracefully to face the smoker, his facial expression and posture are coldly neutral.

"Please...comrade Krycek. Seat yourself." Bossman is smiling again...smiling...why does his smile fucking terrify? Krycek sits, eyes locked on the smoker's. "Consider yourself a very lucky young man. You see...I like you and..." the bastard's mouth quirks to one side, "I want to believe that you are truly otmorozok." Krycek cannot react. The smoker continues, "We have decided to provide you with one more chance to demonstrate where your loyalty lies. At 8:00 p.m.. Be there."

Krycek's head dips curtly and he rises to leave--not too fast. He must control his impulse to flee, to rush from the room, to rid himself of the contents of his stomach someplace safe. Oh god, I'm going to have to... Am *I* being tested? He clears his throat sharply and the sound cuts through the silence of the room. He exits with casual ease...

And became aware of a comforting aroma. Krycek looked down toward its source and identified his hands' white-knuckled grip on each side of a tray. Centered perfectly, a covered dish graced the tray, launching a sinful assault on his olfactory nerves. He'd made Mulder's breakfast. He couldn't remember performing this simple task.

He was losing his mind.

*****

Krycek breathed his cigarette to life between precise lips. He regarded the agent sleeping naked on the bed, draped by sheets and a comforter. Wrists cuffed above him to the wrought-iron headboard left him near dangling in a half-slouch against pillows and headboard. Krycek's lips pursed into a grim line as he beheld the product of last night's work. Flakes of dried blood still clung to the agent's face and swollen eye. Krycek would bet his last buck that the hair growing from the back of his ex-partner's skull was spiked with blood. The pale, lithe torso and arms blossomed with purple-black bruises. The smoker ordered pripizdit and Mulder succumbed quickly.

Mulder's face appeared so peaceful in repose. Krycek's expression softened as he gazed down at the agent, enchanted as always by his beauty. Schnobel'. He stifled the urge to go to the agent, to gather him into his arms, to stroke and knead away the hurts with his own warm hands, to place careful, tender kisses along the square of his unshaven jaw, to trace with his lips and taste with his tongue the slender curve of Mulder's throat.

Mulder's good eye snapped open, piercing him with hate.

Krycek grinned wryly. "Agent Mulder, you're awake."

"Get the hell away from me, Krycek," Mulder spat.

As if he could. He'd wanted Mulder since he first laid eyes on him. His very darkness attracted, rage and an aching vulnerability warring always behind hazel eyes. Krycek ached, too. Ached for days long past when this man had trusted him a little. Smiled at him a little. Respected him a little. He ached for a smile, a touch...what would he give for these things? Anything. Everything.

"You don't want to say that," Krycek said, moving closer to Mulder. He attempted to ignore the loathing that etched itself so plainly in Mulder's features.

"Why not, you son of a bitch? What the hell did you get out of that last night, huh? Do you feel stronger now? Did you fuck the entire FBI last night?"

Fury like poison billowed from the other man. The situation was going to be impossible to explain. "Mulder, I didn't want to do it."

An incredulous laugh. "I'm supposed to believe that? Look. I believed you were a green agent who just needed a leg up. I even believed you were innocent of Duane Barry's death. I even, for a tiny moment, thought maybe you didn't kill my father, or Scully's sister, or --"

Mulder may as well have shot Krycek in the chest. Each word tore into him with such efficient velocity that he felt as if he might bleed to death standing in the bedroom. It had to stop, that reign of words. "I *didn't* kill Scully's sister," he interrupted.

"Oh, fuck you. Or maybe you don't like being on that end of it."

Mulder needed to understand that they must escape this place, these people, together. He would be *made* to understand. "Listen to me, Mulder."

"Why the hell should I?"

Krycek left his cigarette balanced haphazardly in an ashtray and swept up the breakfast he'd prepared. Opened its lid for Mulder, closed it again. He studied the tray in his hands as he said softly, "You should listen to because you don't get breakfast until you do." Risked an upward glance for his ex- partner's reaction.

At Mulder's clipped nod, he continued, "Good. Don't interrupt. I did not want to do what I did last night. I have to do certain things in order to *survive*, Mulder. I don't want to hurt you. I'm just as much a prisoner here as you are. Now when you're ready to accept that, I'd be happy to include you in my escape plan."

"You plan to escape."

He did understand. Krycek stepped closer, eager now, "Yes. And I'll take you with me."

"I could care less, Krycek. So far you're the only one who's caused me pain. As far as I'm concerned, if you 'escape', my torture will stop."

Krycek scowled, seeking frantically for another way to express to Mulder the fragility of their situation. "Did you notice," Krycek ground through gritted teeth, "did you notice that I didn't even fucking come last night?"

"Did you notice that I did?"

*****

Was it the first or the second time the American penetrated him? He remembered his despairing realization that he has gleaned pleasure from his abuse. The American grabbed him by the hips and angled him just so, pulling himself out and slipping in something he could only identify as hard plastic and completely unforgiving. It rubbed against a spot that made his hips jerk against his will, and though he told himself over and over that he was *not* enjoying this, he was *not* going to come, it happened. He dimly remembered the raw sound of his devasted scream; a cacophany of broken dreams and lost dignity.

*****

"Mulder, I faked it." Krycek uttered a short, bitter laugh. "First time I ever faked one. Didn't you notice?"

Mulder turned from him in disgust. "I had nothing to compare it to."

"But don't you understand what that means, Mulder? I didn't...do what I did because I enjoyed it. I hated it. I could barely get it up enough to get it in you convincingly. I had to do it, and I had to do it in front of a witness so they'd *know* I could do it." He pitched his voice low, "I'm...I'm in a tenuous position here, Mulder. I have to prove myself over and over because they don't think they have enough to go on to be absolutely *sure* that I can be trusted. I have to do a lot that's totally over the line. I didn't want to hurt you, Mulder. You have to believe that." He *had* to.

He didn't. "If you're so intent on proving yourself to these people so you don't let thrown out, why plan to escape? It would just be undoing everything you've worked so hard for."

Krycek slid onto the bed next to Mulder. The other man shrank from him, he noted, distraught, but at least he was closer to him, at least Mulder was listening to him. "Because I want to leave on my terms, Mulder. If I leave on their terms, I know I'm gonna have one hell of a time surviving. If I escape, particularly the way I plan to--with you--they'll have to consider, just a little bit, that maybe *you* escaped and forced me to come with you. These men are dangerous, and I'd rather have any doubt in their mind instead of just running off in plain view. Do you believe me?"

"Do I have a choice?"

Krycek, so intent on explaining himself, asked, "What do you mean?"

"If I believe you, I get that." Mulder nodded, indicating the tray on Krycek's lap. "If I don't believe you, I starve to death. Isn't that the way this little game is played?"

Fuck. Did he really think he would withhold food? "No. You get the food no matter what. I just wanted you to listen. To pay attention."

"I listened."

"I know." Krycek scooted closer to Mulder. "I'll bet you're hungry."

"Yes," Mulder agreed emphatically, and Krycek looked closely at the other man then. Mulder, naked, chained, hair and face matted with blood, still wore contemptuous distrust as righteously as any nun had ever worn a habit.

The Russian's eyes dropped suddenly to the plate in his lap, cutting food into bitesize pieces, needing to look anywhere other than the face of the man upon whom he inflicted pripizdit. "I'm sorry I hurt you," Krycek murmured.

"I hope you'll forgive me if I tell you I don't believe you."

Krycek studied the plate.

"What if I believe you?" Mulder asked.

Krycek stabbed a piece of food with renewed enthusiasm. He placed a slice of sausage in Mulder's mouth and said, "It means we'll escape together."

"You raped me."

"I had no choice."

"You said," Mulder's voice accusingly quiet, "You said, 'I know what I'm doing.'"

For the second time in as many days, tears sprang to his eyes. Frustrated with Mulder's continual misunderstandings, he stammered, "I didn't mean it that way. I meant that--" Krycek dropped the silverware and his arms gestured wildly, trying to encompass everything he meant to say, "what I meant was that I--"

"You want me to tell you I forgive you."

Krycek nodded, sniffing. "If you believe me, it would be nice."

"I can't forgive you. I do think I understand your dilemma, and I do think you feel forced by these men to enact such brutal things."

A beginning, at least. "Thank you."

"I'm not hungry anymore," Mulder declared abruptly.

Krycek's head popped up. "Mulder, you have to eat," he insisted.

"I'm not hungry,"

He needed the calories. "*Mulder,*" Krycek urged.

The agent's battered face tightened into a strange, fragile brittleness. "Just shut the fuck up!" Mulder shouted and that brittleness cracked. Krycek watched helpless as the other man's eyebrows sank, the beginnings of glassy tears filling the bottom rim of haunted eyes. In the next moment, his arms were full of Mulder, one hand gently cradling the back of the agent's skull. The other arm wound its way to the small of his captive's back and he pulled Mulder close; close as he could without hurting him, wanting to crush the other man into him, crawl into his skin. The side of Mulder's face pressed into his neck and Krycek wanted to remain in this moment. Freeze time forever.

"I'm so sorry, Mulder." he whispered. "So sorry. You have no idea. If we get out of here together, I'll make it up to you. I promise."

"Let go of me." Mulder said against his neck, but he didn't sound like he meant it. Not at all.

"Never," Krycek vowed and he felt Mulder's body relax against him. Shaken by the older man's unspoken trust, Krycek stroked the small of his back with painstaking care, massaged his nape through the soft rain of Mulder's hair. The agent shuddered and clung to him like a lifeline. Krycek ceased his gentle ministrations and simply held him for a moment suspended.

And as much as he cherished the sensation of Mulder melting in his arms, he had to warn him. "Mulder?" Mulder shifted and Krycek felt hot moist breath against his neck, felt him inhale deeply, smelling him, drowning in him. God, he should be turned on by the agent's sweet responsiveness, should be hard and heavy as a fucking rock.

All he felt was shame so hot and deep it blistered whatever soul he might have left.

"Mulder, this is important."

His arms ached as Mulder pulled away to look up at him with puzzled eyes. Krycek lost himself there, in those eyes he created. Recoiling from the questions he saw burning in them, he dropped his own back to his lap. When he spoke next, he hardly recognized his own voice--cracked and broken. "There's more. It's not over yet."

"What do you mean?" A voice lost in confusion. "I don't understand."

"We have another night before we can leave."

"Why?" a soft, bewildered question.

"We're ten miles out of a small town. I could probably make it, but you're...hurt, and you'll need some heavy clothes. And something to eat. I'll steal those things tonight."

"Stealing from the thieves." Mulder murmured, still lost. Small wonder. The man suffered from head injuries of several varieties that Krycek himself had inflicted and continued to inflict. God, what was he doing?

"Mulder, pay attention." He forced himself to look up at him; explained flatly, "I'll have to do it again tonight, Mulder. Hurt you...like that."

"Rape me?" Mulder's shrill cry sliced so swiftly through Krycek's skull that it took a moment for him to assimilate the stinging pain it left in its wake.

"Yes," he whispered.

"You can't!" Mulder exploded, his face, his voice strained to their limits by unprecented atrocity. "I'll -- I'll -- I don't know what, but I--something like that would...would." Krycek grieved silently as he watched Mulder's eyes bounce around the room...seeking...denial? Escape? Rescue? "This is impossible. This can't happen. Do you know what that...what that would do to me?"

Oh yes. He knew very well. "They don't care about that."

Mulder grasped the steel chain that bound the cuffs together, tried to heave himself upright. A stark note of betrayal rang in his next words. "And what about you?"

And what about you? Betrayer, murderer, liar, rapist. Whore. A funnel cloud of rage touched Krycek, snatched him into its vortex and in a flash he was towering over Mulder; hearing the lightning crack of his captive's head bouncing off the the headboard; feeling the thunderous sting of his lower palm's encounter with Mulder's forehead. He bent over him, hands flat on the mattress so that he and the agent were nose to nose. "Don't you *ever* ask me something like that again." he snarled, "You *know* I feel for you, Mulder. I don't want to have to hurt you."

Calm eyes, calm voice. "Then why did you? Why, just now?"

Krycek pushed himself up and away, hands clenching into frustrated fists as he shouted, "Because you pissed me off!"

Mulder simply looked at him with calm expectance. He couldn't face this man's incredible courage, not in the face of his own cowardice. And what about you? I'm gutless, Mulder. He turned from the agent with shell-shocked slowness. Raised his hands to finger exhausted eyes in a circular motion. Shrugged and sighed softly. "You have to understand. I don't want to do any of this. The thought that I have to do that to you again is...I barely held on to my lunch when they made that part clear, Mulder."

"I feel real sorry for you, Krycek. You're definitely the victim here."

"I know that's not the way it is. You definitely have the short end of the stick."

"Not if what I felt last night was any indication."

Krycek whirled to face Mulder. "Stop it. Just *stop* it, alright? All the deadpan puns in the world won't save you or me right now. We just have to get through this one night, Mulder, and then it will be over."

"No. It won't be over. Even if what you say is true, we'll just be starting all over on yet another journey that will probably end in me being hurt or killed. It's never over with you, Krycek. You always come back for more."

"You don't believe me." He couldn't suppress the tiny quaver in his voice.

"Frankly, no."

"Well, why do you think I'd come up and tell you all of this?"

"To hurt me. To make it more difficult. Maybe you're afraid I'll break too soon. You think that by offering me this blown up idea of mutual escape, I'll identify with you and I won't blame you. You can't stand the idea of *me* hating you. But you still want to hurt me. So you give me a little hope today, so you know I'll get through, and then tomorrow comes and goes and no escape. End result? You get what you want and Mulder's hopes are raised and dashed yet again. Isn't that what you've done to me from the very beginning?"

Amazing. The little prick was center of his egocentric little universe. This was bullshit. "*God*, Mulder, do you any idea how *selfish* that sounds? I don't think that hard about it. I'm just offering you something."

Suddenly, he couldn't escape the room fast enough. His limbs shook with suppressed violence as he reached the door. "Take it or leave it."

*****

Remorse hit even as the reverberations of the slamming door dwindled.

He thought back to the first time he met Fox Mulder. Struck immediately by the agent's off-center beauty, he stammered his lines as instructed by his Superiors and fell a little in love with the man right then. And for the few blissful weeks they'd been partners, Krycek came to feel a tenuous relationship to Mulder. Never in his life had he been much more than a whore or a pawn in some game too huge for him to understand, and Mulder began to trust and even somewhat respect him. Pathetic. Pathetic that in all his life, he was unallowed to form any attachments. Pathetic that he felt so deeply for a man who clearly loathed him Pathetic that he craved an attachment with Mulder more than anything and that very craving was stripping him of all his carefully acquired survival skills.

He'd bashed the man in the head. A man suffering from head injuries. Krycek clenched his throat against the keen coiling there. He could easily have killed him. Mulder could be in there, right now, sinking into coma because he took offense at a simple question.

No. He wouldn't allow that to happen.

He started guiltily as Mick rounded a corner, dressed in yesterday's clothing and another day's layer of grime. Krycek contained his distaste and offered a slight nod as welcome.

"Heardya whoopin' it up in there." Mick remarked. He displayed scummy, yellowing teeth as he flashed his version of a grin.

"Yeah, well, he made me angry."

"Heard yer fuckin' him again tonight." He leaned into Krycek with a conspiratorial air, "Can't wait for the show, man."

Krycek forced a smile that belied his intense desire to pulverize the little fucker's face. "I'm looking forward to another taste of him. He's a sweet little piece of ass."

"Wish I coulda had me some." Mick pouted.

Crossing his arms to lean against the wall, Krycek said airily, "Someday, you'll rise in rank and when that day comes, you, too, will have underlings. Unfortunately for you, today is not that day, little man." Krycek straightened to full height to face Mick. "Now listen. He pissed me off and I hit him. I want you to go in there and make sure he hasn't suffered a concussion. Can you recognize the symptoms of a concussion?"

Mick nodded mutely.

"Good. Keep him awake. Check his pupils for irregular contraction. That is all I want you to do. *Don't* touch him."

As Krycek walked away, Mick called after him, "Why don't you check him yourself?"

Alex Krycek stopped. Turning his head, he answered over his shoulder--a beat too late. "Because I'm afraid I'll hit him again."

*****

He couldn't do it.

He couldn't. Not at the sight of Mulder's face stiffening with resolve as he watched him enter the room.

Krycek was trailed by a Superior and Mick, who had apparently managed to locate and operate a shower. They sat down in chairs which were previously provided. That they both wore suits put Krycek at a daunting disadvantage. This was a clear reminder that he skated thin ice, indeed.

He had to get this over with quickly. He stripped, fighting for the twisted courage required to hurt the only person for whom he'd felt a measure of closeness in an eternity. This charade must convince.

"I'm gonna enjoy this one to the fullest." he announced. "We were rushed last time."

Mick snorted appreciatively.

"Go ahead and adjust his cuffs," Krycek ordered, looking at Mick.

"No," the Superior intervened. "Just have him roll over. It will save a lot of time."

Unnerved by his apparent change of status, random fears flew through Krycek's mind. How closely would they be watching him over the next few hours? Would escape be possible? It had to be. It *had* to be, for Mulder couldn't withstand much more. He sighed. "Mulder, roll over."

He turned to the agent. Unbidden tears washed Krycek's eyes at the sight of him; his fear evident in his jerky movements, his uncontrolled quivering.

Mulder looked at Krycek for guidance, for some signal that this wasn't happening but the younger man could only play his role, for now. God, Mulder, I'm so sorry. You have no idea. The tiny spark of hope in the agent's face extinguished and he rolled to his belly submit to the inevitable.

"Get me the lube."

"Do it bare." the Superior ordered.

Krycek whirled. "I'm not doing it bare," he argued. "Look, I know the idea is to punish him, but my idea of fun isn't exactly having to shove in without any lube."

"He has a point," Mick conceded.

"See? I have a point."

The Elder leaned forward, enunciating carefully, "No you don't. If you have to, spit."

Krycek considered this, then shrugged with feigned indifference. He snorted crudely, collecting mucus in his throat and spat into his palm. He examined his creation, hoping it would be enough--knowing no amount of lube would make this any easier.

He settled on his haunches between Mulder's legs and leaned forward, planting a hand to steady himself as the other pressed into the cleft of the agent's ass. Mulder's sweat-dampened head wrenched from side to side as Krycek's fingers tried to open him gently. He tried to ease his fingers in slowly, but Mulder had tightened up so thoroughly, he had to force it. Mulder flinched and gasped. Krycek deepened the penetration and this time, Mulder screamed.

Krycek hadn't the luxury of grief. Not now. This final hurt and they would both be free. He reminded himself that he and Mulder's very lives hung in the balance of this charade; both forfeit should it be executed to anything short of perfection.

"Please," Mulder begged, "Please don't do this to me."

"Shut up." Krycek growled, hoping to *Christ* he could do what he had to in order to save Mulder, to save himself.

"No," Mulder's voice was tinged with desperation. "Please..."

Krycek leaned back on his haunches, declaring for the benefit of his audience. "You know, I don't care if you make it worse on yourself. Just don't come crying to me." Laughter scattered at the double entendre.

He saw that Mulder had repositioned himself. Found the strength to pull himself to his knees and cling to the iron of the headboard. His hunched posture appeared almost fetal.

Krycek's heart stuttered painfully at Mulder's capitulation. Grimly, he mounted the other man and penetrated with a swift, deep thrust. Mulder shrieked and Krycek froze.

"Alex, don't," Mulder whispered.

Alex?

He closed his eyes against the pain of the familiar; but it did not stop him from continuing--quick, hard plunges intended to hurt and he thought of his mother's sweet, passive smile, of other jobs he'd completed, of his father's brutality, he thought of the streets and the smoker. Anything, anything but the wild cries of a man lost utterly in agony.

He couldn't fake it this time.

Mulder's screams dwindled to exhausted whimpers; his body sagging under the treatment it received. Krycek eased his arm under Mulder's hips despite the other's whispered protest. Mulder slackened beneath him completely, his dark head slumped forward in defeat.

Anxious to finish this, Krycek quickened his pace, lifting the other's hips to meet his thrusts. Sweat-dampened hair fell into his eyes. He closed them, pretending this was a consenting Mulder, a Mulder who welcomed him into his body and finally he slipped over the edge, leaving slippery white evidence of his orgasm. He collapsed atop the older man, exhausted.

Mulder felt clammy against his own heated skin.

Krycek pulled out, struck by icy guilt as the action wrung from Mulder a final, broken sob. Flinging his hair from his eyes with a flick of his head, he remarked, "He's a good piece of meat."

Then on impulse, he sprinted to his clothes and grabbed his gun. Sped back to Mulder and for a moment his mind splintered.

The agent remained in the position he'd left him. His fingers uncurled, revealing raw weals on his palms as they slid loose from the chain of the cuffs. The line of his shoulders, the curve of his back, his bloodied ass and thighs trembled under the strain of his bondage and brutalization.

Krycek scrambled to piece his mind into some semblance of order. Euthanize.

"Please." Mulder moaned as if he'd read Krycek's thoughts.

Krycek grasped Mulder's chin, pulling his face upward. Mulder's mouth was slack, his eyes the blasted holes of a holocaust survivor. "It's alright, Mulder," he promised. He swung the gun down with the force required to put the agent out.

*****

"I'm looking forward to your explanation, Alex."

A derisive snort. "An explanation of *what*, exactly? You wanted pripizdit. You got it. The evidence is upstairs, unconscious."

The smoker nodded patiently, toying with the cigarette butt in his fingers. He leaned to crush it in the littered ashtray and reached for another. "That is exactly what concerns me, Alex. Why is Agent Mulder unconscious? I was advised that you put him out yourself."

Krycek shrugged. "You wanted lab samples, didn't you? You wanted your *proof* didn't you? Hey...I was just making it easier for your boys to deal with him."

The smoker studied him through the haze of smoke. Krycek returned his look blandly, and fearsweat trickled down his spine.

A long moment passed.

Abruptly, the smoker extinguished his cigarette. "I've come to a decision, Alex. I find your recent behavior...disturbing. Your priorities skewed. I understand that. Agent Mulder is, after all, a very attractive man."

"Hey, now wait a minute!" Krycek cried, surging to his feet.

"SIT!" the smoker ordered.

Krycek slumped back, unable to resist that voice.

With a predatory smile, the smoker said, "Razden'sya."

"What!?!"

"You heard me." God, the smoke-tattered voice was quiet, controlled. The eyes conjured images of the blank, soulless orbs of a shark.

The younger man disrobed with wooden slowness. Once again, he was naked before the Boss. Shark eyes flicked up and down his body appreciatively. Shame heated his skin. It had been years since he had been thus disciplined.

The smoker rose from his seat and went to Krycek. Nicotine-stained fingers reached to caress the other's cheek. Krycek shrank from the touch.

"You're so transparent to me. I know you feel something for Agent Mulder." Cigarette breath wafted. The smoker's hand moved to the back of Krycek's neck, hooking his fingers deep into flesh. "You seem to forget that you are mine. *I* made you. *I* created you. You belong to *me*.

Krycek nodded, yet the fingers sank deeper.

"If I get the faintest impression that you are not, things will go badly for you, Alex. And for your precious Agent Mulder. Neither of us wants that. Now, do we have an understanding, Alex?"

Another nod and the steely fingers relaxed. With a strength that belied his age, the smoker shoved him flat onto the table. The side of Krycek's face hit the polished wood with a sickening crack. He felt the rasputnik's presence behind him and didn't dare move. He looked at his hand flat on the wood of the table and thought of Mulder; wondering how damaging that final blow to the head had been, praying that the agent was resting, building his strength.

A brief rustle of fabric behind him and the sound of a zipper. "Razdvin nogy."

Krycek spread his legs, helpless.

Blunt flesh nudged into the cleft of his ass. No condom, no lube. Krycek went boneless from long practice, relaxing to keep this encounter as painless as possible.

His anus flared with the familiar burn of the older man's sudden, ruthless intrusion. The sensation could become bearable if only the other would slow his thrusts and allow Krycek's body to adjust. He clenched his teeth and closed his eyes. Hands curled to white-knuckled fists. His dick swung flaccid. The pounding went on and on and Alex tried valiantly to think himself elsewhere as each plunge knocked him against the sharp edge of the table.

It was no use. Lost was his mind's ability to roam gentler places.

The old man cried out hoarsely; the final thrusts deep, erratic.

"Huyishko." Krycek muttered softly when it was over. He lifted himself, chest heaving, from the sweat-slickened table. "Are you finished?" he hissed.

The old man was already lighting his post-coital cigarette. The predatory gleam in his eyes dimmed. He sighed deeply and warned, "I trust you'll remember you belong to me."

"Yes," the younger man husked.

The smoker closed the door behind him, leaving Krycek in smoky blackness lit only by squares of paneled moonlight.

Krycek dressed in record time. Time, time was so precious. Yet before he left the room, he bent his head in silent prayer to a God he no longer believed in.

*****

He entered the room encumbered by supplies he'd painstakingly collected.

Vision already adjusted to the dark, he immediately spotted the huddled figure. A whistled, inward gasp told him that Mulder was dreaming; a nightmare...

With whisper-steps, Alex went to him. "Mulder."

No movement from the lump on the bed.

"Hey, Mulder. Now."

A low moan. Good. Mulder was awake and hopefully in good enough form to move. Krycek would throw him over his shoulder and carry him, if need be. "Come on." he urged, fumbling briefly with the locks that released the cold steel binding Mulder's wrists. "We gotta go."

"I don't want to go."

Jesus. "What? Mulder--"

"I don't want to go anywhere with you, you son of a bitch."

Krycek's voice hardened. "Forget it. This is not a question of wanting, Mulder. We *have* to get out of here. It could be our only chance."

"No."

The stupid prick. "Mulder, this is *not* negotiable. Now you are getting up and you are putting on these clothes and for God's sake, we are getting out of here."

Mulder rubbed his wrists and glared at the other man. Pursing his lips, he struggled to sit upright.

Gathering the outwear gear, he dressed Mulder as he would a child, stuffing the dead weight of the agent's limbs into layers of clothing. That Mulder seemed unwilling or unable to dress himself troubled him. A glance at Mulder's moonlit face suggested his thoughts were deeply inward. He frowned and turned back to lacing the heavy boots carefully, in double knots.

Those animal cries wrenched from Mulder during that last time when Krycek had...hurt him; they still rang in his ears. He wondered if the ghosts of these past nights would haunt him forever.

Mulder appeared to awaken from his lassitude once fully dressed. Together, they made their silent way out of the house and stepped cautiously into the chill night.

Slipping into the snowy wood, they found a little-used path. Krycek only prayed Mulder could walk for at least a few hours. The shackles of tension binding him loosened with each step away from the house and all it represented. Every step gained was another toward freedom.

He kept an eye on Mulder, checking for fatigue. At last his gaunt face told the story, and Krycek brought them to a halt.

Mulder had remained silent since their escape.

Awkwardly, Krycek offered, "I know it's cold. But I swear it's better than being in there."

Mulder threw him an droll glance.

Frustration stirred within him. "Mulder, don't be mad at me. I'm saving you, for God's sake. You have to understand that. You know, even when I...did what I did for your enemy, it was all ordered by him. You have to know that. What I did here isn't any different. I don't want to hurt you anymore. I don't want to hurt *anyone* anymore." And as those last words were spoken, Krycek realized it was *true*.

And that he was free.

"We better get going," Mulder said dully.

The idiot was going to kill himself. Each grimace, each unsteady movement spoke plainly of the agent's pain and sheer exhaustion.

Softly. "The town is another few miles that way. I don't think we'll make it tonight."

Mulder set his jaw. "We'll make it tonight."

"We'd have to walk all night," Krycek countered.

"Then let's walk all night." Mulder brushed past the younger man to stalk down the trail. Krycek bit back his frustration and followed.

The black bowl of the night sky above, the multitude of stars glittering, the soft sparkle of snow; they all whispered of freedom. Joy sometimes caused Krycek to twirl spontaneously and he smiled anew each time he was unable to see the house.

Fatigue soon got the better of him as they trudged until each snow-laden brush looked like the next and the very wood blurred. Mulder stumbled on occasion, regaining his balance each time to stubbornly plod onward. Krycek was sore and exhausted. Mulder was surely on his last legs. It couldn't continue.

"Mulder, we should stop here for the night."

"You think we'll survive this weather?"

Krycek's grin came easily. "Relax, city boy. It can't be less than twenty degrees out here. You can handle it. I've got a sleeping bag."

As Krycek unshouldered the pack from his back, Mulder squeaked, "*A* sleeping bag?"

"I'll share," Krycek offered.

"I'd rather keep going."

Stubborn. Krycek took a breath of patience and argued, "Mulder, you have dome severe injuries. You need to take it as easy as you can. I'm just trying to help you."

"You're the person who gave me those injuries."

He was tired and Mulder absolutely required rest. What if he continued and died of exposure? It could happen far too easily and he wanted Mulder alive. Happy. And there were things he needed from Mulder. Complex things that Mulder might not understand or be willing to offer. He had vowed to keep Mulder alive through this. Even if it meant bending the agent to his will.

"Please?" he tried.

And to his vast relief, Mulder nodded.

With learned efficiency, Krycek stripped the sleeping bag from the pack and rolled it onto the snow-packed ground. Kicking off his shoes and folding his outer coat as a pillow, he slithered into the bag, rolling to create heating friction within the cocoon. "Give me a couple minutes, I'll get it warmed up in here." Once molecules gained enough speed to raise the temperature from icy to near-body temperature Krycek said, "Okay. I think it's getting warm. Come here..."

Mulder trudged the few steps to Krycek and his single sleeping bag. He stood in a shivering daze.

Krycek unlaced Mulder's boots. At Mulder's muddled, quizzical look he explained, "So you don't have to bend down so much. Just step out of them. Go ahead and throw your coat down, I'll take care of it."

Mulder obeyed silently. He crept into the tiny space of the sleeping bag. Krycek pulled him closer, spooning to conserve heat, when Mulder warned, "Don't use this as some cheap come-on."

The corners of Krycek's eyes crinkled at the half-joke. Mulder was not as catatonic as he'd feared. Still, the agent's words underlined his basic fear of him. Truly, he hadn't wanted it to turn out like this. Dammit! From the very beginning he had planned and prepared and almost everything had gone wrong. Small wonder Mulder feared him. He cleared his throat sharply before he said, "I'm not going to hurt you, Mulder."

Silence, but for the rustle of boughs in the night.

"Then why did you pistol-whip me?"

Why? You were hurting. Because it was me who...

"Because you'd just been raped, and I didn't want you to suffer. Afterwards is the time the peanut gallery gets to comment and poke fun, and I didn't want you to suffer through that."

"Huh. I thought of them as the peanut gallery, too. So you've done this kind of thing before?"

Coldly. "Did I offer you an adequate answer to your first question, Agent Mulder?

"Don't try to sound bitter," Mulder rasped. "I have a hell of a lot more to hate you for than you do me."

Krycek reined his impulse to lick the back of Mulder's neck. Their proximity, Mulder's warmth leeching into him--he was helpless to stop his arousal. He focused on the conversation instead. "You blame me for everything. Whereas every time I try to be nice to you, you punch me out or put me down or you just plain don't believe me."

"You believe you're saving my life right now." Mulder said in wonderment.

"Yes, I do."

"Thank you," Mulder said, then stiffened. Krycek felt Mulder's body coil, waiting to explode. Mulder's breathing quickened and the other man suspected the agent was just short of a total panic attack. Krycek pressed his hand to Mulder's chest, hoping to calm the coming storm...and the other man just froze; not breathing. Mulder's terrified heart raced beneath his hand.

He knew...he knew that Mulder had no real reason to trust him, but his reaction hurt after all he'd done to help him. He explained slowly, reasonably, "Mulder, I can't do anything about biological reactions, but I have my will. I told you I'm not going to hurt you and I won't. I might feel desire, but I'm not acting on it. I was serious about you needing rest. I'm really not a vicious person, or a violent person. Sometimes...the consequences get the better of me. I won't get anything if I force you here. I'll only hurt you and give myself needless guilt. There's no point."

To his amazement, Mulder relaxed. Within seconds, snores filled their tiny nest. Krycek shook his head and with a half-smile, snuggled close to Mulder to sleep.

*****

Krycek woke to the graylight that preceded dawn. He turned his face into the cutting wind. Too cold to get out yet. And there was the warmth of the creature sleeping in his arms to consider. His cock twitched--swelled to an impressive morning hard-on. Why not now? He could prove his remorse to Mulder. He could touch him sweetly, softly; the way he had in his dreams.

He stroked Mulder's hair from his forehead. No response. The agent was dead asleep. Krycek's shaft throbbed in anticipation. Everything about the agent intoxicated him. Thick lashes lay across cheekbones highlighted by early dawn shadows. A perfect mole. Lush lips parted invitingly in sleep. Moaning, Krycek maneuvered the other man so he lay flat on his back.

He would taste this flesh of his dreams.

"Krycek," Mulder muttered. "Krycek, stop it."

Moving slowly so as to not alarm the other man, Krycek wriggled deep into the sleeping bag.

"Stop it."

Not likely. "Shut up, Mulder." Krycek fumbled with the fly of Mulder's jeans. Fucking 501's. He tore at the first stud.

"No." Mulder sounded resigned.

Krycek took the lack of indignance as consent. Oh, he wanted this so badly. Surely Mulder wanted this a little, too. Had he not melted into his embrace back at the house? "Oh, come on, Mulder, I told you last night I wouldn't do anything you didn't want."

"Well, I don't want anything."

Krycek loosened the next stud. "Well, I don't think that's true." The heady scent that rose from the other man was almost Krycek's undoing. Three more studs and Mulder would be his.

"If you're deciding what I want, there's no point in arguing." Mulder's tone was that of careful reason, not passion or even acquiescence.

Krycek wanted to cry. His balls hurt and he hurt in other places; places he kept hidden his secret desires. He knew only one way to apologize and he needed to make some sort of amends. And so he blurted, "Mulder, I want to make you happy! I wanted to go down on you! Will you let me?"

"No."

The pressure in his balls began to build. "Mulder, please. I know you'll like it. So do you. Come on," he cajoled.

"No."

Bastard. He wanted this as bad as Krycek did. He was just too stubborn to admit it. "Scoot up," Krycek instructed, grasping the other's legs and pushing them up toward the opening of the sleeping bag.

Mulder complied, to Krycek's utter joy. The tease. The last three studs came undone easily.

"Don't," Mulder said softly.

Krycek smiled in the blackness and assured, "You'll like it, Mulder, I*promise*."

He opened the troublesome fly and slipped in his hand to lovingly stroke the flesh waiting there. Mulder's cock jumped beneath his touch and Krycek murmured, "Ssh. It'll be alright now. It'll be okay."

The first, powerful blast in the face stunned him, utterly. Then rained a torrent of furious feet, pounding his head, shoulders, back; a cloudburst of rage he didn't predict. The younger man finally gathered his wits enough to tuck himself into a tight ball, waiting for the storm to pass.

The pummeling ended as abruptly as it began.

"Son of a bitch!" came Mulder's muffled shout through the sleeping bag. Krycek cringed. Had he truly misread him so completely? The speculative looks, the welcoming smiles, the lingering touch of fingers when he'd handed Mulder his coffee in the days of their partnerhood...

It didn't matter. Mulder was the recipient of too much pain at his hands. Swallowing the lump of grief threatening to choke him, Krycek asked, "Can I come out now?"

Mulder shifted in the sleeping bag, leaving little room for passage. Krycek hesitated a second, then made his way up and over the agent's body, tilting his head in an effort to hide the tears that streaked his face. This man in two short days managed to make him cry more than anything during his twelve years of imprisonment. He only prayed Mulder didn't notice his erection as his crotch moved over the agent's face.

With as much dignity as possible, he perched on his jacket and pulled on his shoes. The hot tightness of his left eye where Mulder's first kicked landed throbbed and he commented lightly, "I don't think we'll be a matched pair. I figured it out before you hit me a good one in the eye. Just a few bruised ribs for me, a few sore spots on my back. Nothing out of the ordinary."

"Save the guilt trip," Mulder sneered. He sighed softly, then, and asked, "If you have any drugs on you, that would go a long way to reduce the number of murderous thoughts I have about you."

Krycek thoughts flashed to the precious opiates stashed in his pack. These could very well be necessities in the unknown of the free world. Who was he kidding? He would never be free. He'd spend his lifetime running. Better than being the smoker's muscle...the smoker's whore.

"You wouldn't like them."

"Why is that?"

"They're not your type." Krycek groped through the hastily gathered supplies in his pack and produced a flask, cups, and a large hunk of bread. He poured a portion of the Stolichnaya into a plastic cup, extended both it and a chunk of bread to Mulder.

Mulder blinked at the offerings, but took them. With greedy thirst, he tipped the cup to his lips and drank deeply. Krycek suppressed the grin that demanded release and watched the other man with a straight face.

"Jesus!" Mulder choked. "What the hell is that?"

The grin screeched to the surface. "I thought everyone knew how to do this. Here." He demonstrated...taking a quick swig of the vodka, followed by tearing off a hunk of bread with his teeth. Around the mouthful of food, he instructed, "Lessens the burn."

Mulder grimaced. "What *is* it?"

"Vodka."

"*Straight* vodka?"

"Yes, " he chuckled, "and you drink it in shots, and eat the bread to cut the bite."

"What is this, the masochists' drink of choice?"

"It's the traditional Russian way of drinking vodka. You could use a little alcohol this morning, couldn't you?"

Mulder turned from him, easing himself with painstaking care on a flatish rock. Krycek watched him as he drank and ate as instructed. The strain of his ordeal writ itself in the lines of the agent's face.

Time was short and there was so much he wanted to say. From his seat, Krycek gazed across wood and mountain and realized that Mulder would never understand him. No one would.

Truly, he was alone in this brave, new world.

"I'm sorry," he said.

Mulder stopped mid-bite and glared at him. "Sorry for what, exactly? Raping me? Beating me? Raping me again? Or are you just sorry for attempting to force me into having oral sex this morning?"

"I'm sorry about your father."

"My father?" Mulder breathed.

"Yeah. I'm sorry about your father."

"When did you arrive at that conclusion?"

"The moment I shot him."

Mulder's face tightened into stoicism. He stared broodily into the woods, silent.

"Aren't you going to say something?" Krycek asked.

"No."

"Why not?"

Mulder sighed heavily. "What should I say?"

Mulder might not say it in words, but his body language told the tale. Not forgotten. Not forgiven. The question of who the unforgiven might be hung between them unanswered.

"We should get going." Krycek finally relented.

*****

Apprehension settled over him when he finally spied the small town. Now the ball was in Mulder's court. What would he do with it? Would he turn him in to the Feds? Now *there* was a chilling thought. The consortium's tentacles reached everywhere and if he were locked away, they would surely find him. They may or may not kill him. If not, they'd make damn sure he wished they had.

Nothing for it now. He placed his fate in Mulder's hands; hoping those hands knew mercy; counting on his gut-instinct that insisted the agent had some feelings for him. "There's the town," he said.

"Thank God."

"You could thank a couple of other people while you're at it, you know."

Alarm at Mulder's quiet tickled the nape of his neck. He imagined he could see the cogs of the agent's mind spinning into overdrive, plotting the quickest and easiest course to take him into custody. Krycek poised himself, ready for flight.

"Thank you," Mulder said.

Krycek blinked. Then beamed. "You're welcome, Mulder. I'll even pay for our hotel room."

"*Our* hotel room?"

Krycek snorted, "It's up to you, Mulder. I'm not paying for a room I'm not using. They took your money, your credit cards, everything. What do you think?"

After some thought, Mulder said, "Let's find a motel."

The younger man stifled the euphoria threatening to overcome him. Hope only brought disapointment in its wake, and he hadn't the heart to take anymore from Mulder. He found his voice enough to quip, "Let's find the town first."

*****

"Mulder, just wait out here, for Chrissakes! The last thing we need right now is to be spotted together! Look at us! We look like a couple of thugs."

"Speak for yourself, Krycek. I'm *tired* of the cold. I don't give a shit if we're seen together."

Raking irritated fingers through the errant locks spilling over his forehead, Krycek looked hard at the other man. Mulder's chattering teeth and determined expression made the decision for him. "C'mon, then. And let me do the talking." He stalked into the motel office, trailed by Mulder.

Krycek smiled at the desk clerk. "A single, please."

The young clerk eyed them dubiously, then quickly regained his poise.

"With two beds." Krycek clarified.

The clerk fumbled with the registry and asked for a credit card. When Krycek slapped a wad of cash on the desk, the clerk avoided looking directly at the two men, and completed the transaction quickly.

Snatching the room keys, Krycek pulled an amused Mulder from the office.

"Some desk clerk," he complained. "Talk about funny looks."

"He thinks we're a couple, Krycek," Mulder dead-panned.

Krycek grimaced. "I had that figured out, Mr. Special Agent. I used to work for the FBI, too, remember?"

They located their room and Krycek unlocked the door. Warmth beckoned from within and the men embraced it eagerly. Krycek took off his jacket and plopped down on his bed, watching as Mulder lowered himself gingerly onto the bed across from him. Unwelcome guilt slithered through his spine. "Hey Mulder. Slow down. The bed's not going anywhere. Want to get something to eat?"

Mulder touched his stomach and looked surprised. "Yes," he answered emphatically.

"Great. I'll go get some food. What do you want?"

Krycek frowned as Mulder's face took on that inward look. It cleared and the agent said, "We'll find a greasy spoon." He eyed Krycek with suspicion. "We'll go together. I won't be able to wait."

*****

Classic dive. Harsh, fluorescent lights illuminated worn checkered tiles and old grease permeated the air. The two men sat themselves in a quiet back booth. Krycek put on his most charming smile and waved at the waitress, who sauntered to their table immediately to take their order. She was a sweet thing, as yet unsullied by life's crueler blows.

She brought Krycek's shake immediately.

"Thank you. Wow, great service! You wouldn't *believe* how hungry we are," Krycek said.

With dancing eyes and a grin, she replied, "You boys look like two of the hungriest people I've seen in a long time. Your soup will be right up." Patting Krycek's hand, she turned to leave and Krycek watched her hips as they rolled away.

"I wonder if she'd be this helpful if she knew you raped me."

Krycek sighed. And though he couldn't convince the other man of anything, still he tried. "Mulder, I didn't rape you. I was acting on behalf of a larger, powerful group that raped you."

"Funny, it wasn't the dick of a large, powerful group I felt in my ass," Mulder countered.

How could he explain without dredging up the details of his induction into tthe consortium? Mulder must *never* know the sordid events of his misspent life. The conversation skimmed too close to home, so Krycek chose his words carefully, "You understand so many things in the line of duty, Mulder. Why can't you understand this?"

Mulder's eyes narrowed in contempt and he accused, "Because I don't believe most of what you say. Never have."

Krycek shrugged. "If you believed me, I wouldn't have to lie so much."

Mulder tossed back his head and laughed. Krycek grinned too, delighted with a side of the agent he'd never seen. Mmmm...the man was delicious when he laughed. Pity his laughter was so rare. With these soft thoughts, Krycek murmured, "Hey, Mulder."

"What?" Mulder spat.

Disconcerted by the other's sudden change in demeanor, Krycek sputtered, "I don't want you to be angry. I really am sorry about all of this. If there had been a way out...I would have done everything I could. I didn't want to hurt you. I couldn't think of a way out. You have to realize that when these people tell you to do something, it's the equivalent of having a gun pressed to your head. If somebody was in that room with us holding a gun to my head, would you hold me responsible?"

"Tell me how they metaphorically hold a gun to your head, Krycek." Mulder's tone dripped irony.

Krycek squirmed as pale glimpses of the past vied for attention in the far reaches of his mind. "These men, they can find me anywhere. If I hadn't...done what I did that night, those nights, if I had refused and fled, they would have tracked me down like an animal and done the same thing to me and killed me."

"So why can't you even say it?"

Krycek made an exasperated sound. "Say what?"

Mulder paused a beat--then zeroed in for the kill. "Why can't you say you raped me?"

Resentment sang through his veins and in that one, white-hot moment, Krycek hated Fox Mulder. "The same reason I can't say I love you, the same reason I can't tell Scully I'm sorry I killed her sister, the same reason I can't tell you I regret punching Skinner out. Because they're flat out *not true*," Krycek snarled.

"You don't regret punching Skinner out?"

Trust Mulder to believe him when he *was* lying. "Not one bit. I heard you punched him out once. Do you regret it?"

"Yes. Because I was too stoned to enjoy it. And I didn't know I was stoned so I couldn't even enjoy being stoned."

Mulder's boyish grin made Krycek's balls and his throat ache with some emotion he didn't want to identify. "It's a sad life you live, Agent Mulder," Krycek pointed out as their soup and Mulder's tea arrived.

The soup's aroma smelled of warmth and safety. Krycek remarked to their waitress, "Mmm, you must be some kind of angel."

Her smile was as charming as her blush. As she strolled away, Mulder propped his elbows on the table and leaned in close, accusing, "You're still doing it. Still conning, still raping people's emotions."

Rape, raping, rapist. "Just *stop* using that word, okay?" Krycek almost-whispered, turning the word over and over in his mind; wishing fiercely that he'd never left his father's house in Russia, that he'd been man enough to take that abuse, that he'd the foreknowledge of a future so extraordinarily cruel it would shape him into everything he loathed.

Mulder continued, quiet but relentless. "You're in denial over what you've done. It's common. But you have to face it. I will *make* you face it. You are a rapist. Nothing's gonna change the fact that you raped a man, repeatedly, intentionally making the experience as savage and painful as humanly possible."

Krycek was *not* going to talk about this. "Is your moral diatribe over, Mulder?"

"Say it." Mulder sing-songed. His mouth thinned into a grim smile and he stirred his soup abstractedly.

With a frown and a frustrated jerk of his head, Krycek asked, "Why should I?"

Mulder smirked, "You're afraid to say it. I told you."

"I am *not* afraid to say it," Krycek snapped.

"So say it," Mulder challenged through a mouthful of soup.

Krycek leaned back. "This is stupid."

"Is it?" Mulder hissed--eyes slitted.

"Here you are, boys." The young waitress set their plates in front of them and left hurriedly.

Mulder broke the stare to grapple for his silverware. Krycek watched with some concern as the agent wolfed huge portions of barely-chewed food. "Slow down," he said, "If you eat too fast, you'll get a stomach ache and you'll regret it later."

"You've done this sort of thing before," Mulder grunted, "eating on the run?"

"More often than you have, that's for sure. You will *hate* the cramps, Mulder, you're too soft to take them," Krycek admonished. "Slow down." He picked up his own silverware and set to work.

The sudden rattle of glasses and dinner plates reacting to movement startled Krycek from his meal. His gaze flicked up to Mulder--oh god, his eyes. One so swollen the iris could barely be seen; the other circled white around hazel, widened so with fear.

When his foot brushed against Mulder's, it must have scared the hell out of him. "Sorry," Krycek muttered.

"Are you trying to tell me that was an accident?" Mulder sneered.

"It was," Krycek explained and continued eating.

Mulder snorted and shook his head.

The younger man's eyes narrowed swiftly at the sound and he flung down his silverware. "See what I mean, Mulder? You never believe me. Never. Not even when we're talking about something as small as our feet bumping into each other under the table."

"Something like that is not small when you are sitting across from your rapist," Mulder noted.

Closing his throat against the tirade of words that would never in a million years be believed, Krycek resumed eating. Mulder sought the truth and when confronted with it, denied it.

Mulder continued, conversationally, "So, these men. Who are they?"

"Couldn't tell you."

"Why do they hate me?"

"Couldn't tell you that, either."

"Couldn't or wouldn't?" Mulder pressed, leaning forward again, invading his space again, not believing him. Again.

Lying had been so much easier.

Krycek flashed a humorless grin. "Couldn't. I don't know who they are. I don't know why they hate you. Probably for your ugly ties."

Mulder hitched in an impatient breath and growled, "Either help me out here or don't, Krycek."

"I never said I would, Mulder, " Krycek retorted.

"Why did they think this was the best way to punish me?" Mulder's interrogation technique was gearing up to full form.

"I don't know. I just follow orders."

"Well, what were your orders?"

Krycek shrugged. "For a hungry man, you sure do ask a lot of questions."

Mulder's mouth worked silently as if deciding what to say next, and he stared at him intently for several tense minutes. "What were they?" he demanded, finally.

"To psychologically break you. Use of negative force was allowed, as long as it didn't cause anything that required hospitalization. Basically, to humiliate and torture you until you were of no use to anyone."

Mulder's good eye widened-like-that again and Krycek despised the pain his honesty caused. Despised himself. But in this he would be honest. He owed Mulder that much.

"What were they going to do with me after that?" Mulder asked in a hushed, awe-struck tone.

"Drop you off. Probably at Scully's or somewhere near there. The idea was to make it look like you'd gone crazy. Or been driven crazy. It really didn't matter either way on that point. Just as long as Special Agent Fox Mulder descended into a web of madness after his many, many years of unorthodox, illegitimate work."

"And you accepted this assignment."

Pushing his plate aside with his forearm, Krycek explained, "They aren't assignments. They're save-your-ass-missions. You do them, do them *well*, and your ass is saved. Until the next one comes up." The younger man paused a moment before adding flippantly, "Make sense?"

Mulder nodded as his fork pushed distractedly at the remainders of the food on his plate. His eyes lifted suddenly to Krycek's; aiming that beam of awareness on the other's face. "So you have this wide array of tools at your disposal. You could have done whatever you wanted to me. Why rape me?"

Krycek's eyelids fluttered; he licked his lips and admitted, "Because it was the most effective tool at my disposal."

"Have you had extensive experience with this particular tool?" Mulder continued.

The younger man held his breath. "I don't think I'd call it extensive."

"But you've had *some* experience."

"Yeah," Krycek admitted hoarsely. He turned to the window, trying very hard to remember the night sky of Russia. Russia had been cold and his father's house colder; but still he held a few fuzzy memories of his quiet, smiling mother who told him stories sometimes of bears and stars. His mother, who refused to allow him to go to Afghanistan and sent him instead to the streets to escape the war at home and abroad. He laughed bitterly.

"Always on the giving end, or were you -- did you play the other role as well?" Mulder interrupted.

Krycek swallowed. "I really don't want to talk about this."

"Well, I'm sorry," Mulder retorted.

The younger man uttered a self-conscious little laugh and tried an exercise in misdirection. "I thought so. You said that and you sounded just like Skinner. And sure enough you had That Look on your face, too."

This one caught Mulder completely off-guard. "What look?"

"The one he has when he says "Yes, sir' to Mr. Smokes. The surly Marine look."

Mulder just stared.

"Don't ask." Krycek advised. He waved at the waitress for the bill.

*****

Krycek moved quickly, as if by staying a few steps ahead of Mulder, he could outrun his damned curiosity.

He'd barely opened the door when Mulder asked, "When did the men you worked for find out you could rape people?"

"For God's sake, Mulder, I haven't even taken off my jacket yet." Krycek flopped onto a chair, exhausted. God help him, his cock stirred as he watched Mulder shed his outerwear with bliss-like abandon, stripping down to jeans and thermal. The elegant curve from the nape of his neck through the small of his back reduced all rational thought to a thick haze of lust.

Mulder took a seat on his bed.

Time was passing and Krycek knew he had to leave soon. His fantasies of Mulder involved an array of different scenarios; most of them domestic and he smiled at himself at the foolishness of these thoughts. This would be his only chance to create a memory that he could keep safe with him forever; a jewel to treasure on cold days. He turned to Mulder. "Look. I don't want to talk about my job. I don't want to talk about the men I left up there. I don't want to talk about who I killed or if I feel remorse."

Mulder lifted a sardonic eyebrow. "Doesn't leave much to talk about."

"It leaves plenty to talk about. I want to make it up to you."

"By refusing to answer my questions."

"No." Krycek closed his eyes and sighed and he wanted this so damn bad. He wanted to Mulder find pleasure in his hands, just this once. "Please, Mulder. I want to make you happy. That way. I'll do anything you want. I will say that I do feel guilty and I do feel remorse. If I had it to do over again, maybe I just would have let the bastards kill me. They'd have beaten me good and let me out in the woods, just for sport, and maybe I could have eluded them. I don't know. I knew every step of the way and I chose it anyway. It seemed like the best thing to do at the time. Don't you remember when we used to be partners?"

"Yes. Although I don't think of it that way. I think of it as the one time you managed to pull the wool over my eyes completely, the time I felt most betrayed."

"Alright, but *aside* from all that."

Mulder snorted.

"Mulder, *listen*," Krycek demanded, swinging out of the chair, standing over Mulder to ensure he had the agent's full attention. "You *have* to understand this, Mulder. *I'm sorry.*" Krycek's voice broke as he continued, "The only way that I can see to make it halfway right is to make it up to you, right now."

Mulder looked away. "I don't want it, " he answered flatly. "I don't want anything to do with you. I don't want your hands on me. Or any other part of you on me.

"I don't want anything to do with you, period."

Krycek swallowed. "It would be more than an apology."

"What else would it be?" Mulder still eyed Krycek with distrust and fear. Krycek wanted to erase that fear.

He licked his lips. "A...a fulfillment of a wish I've had for awhile."

Mulder made an ugly sound. "If you are trying to say you are attracted to me, you have a funny way of showing it. Besides, you've already fucked me. What else is there?"

"I didn't fuck you." A ghost of a whisper.

Mulder looked down and sighed. "I know," he croaked. "The *corporation* fucked me."

"No," Krycek denied as he sat ever-so-slowly next to the agent. Tentatively, he reached up to brush back a stray lock of hair on Mulder's forehead. The agent held himself perfectly still and Krycek admitted, "I didn't fuck you, Mulder, I raped you."

Mulder blushed. "Thank you."

Leaving his hands flat on the bed so as not to frighten the other man, Krycek bent to touch softly those full lips with his own. Mulder's mouth parted almost imperceptibly, allowing Krycek to deepen the kiss. The younger man whispered against the other's mouth, "I've wanted you," another gentle kiss, "and wanted you," and another, "and wanted you."

Mulder leaned back, a tiny crease between his eyebrows as his eyes searched Krycek's. "I don't like where this is headed," he said. "I don't feel...particularly...erotic."

"Ssh, it's alright." Impulsively, Krycek reached to touch Mulder's mouth. He ran his thumb along his lush bottom lip, touching gently and fondling playfully when the other man did not protest.

Mulder was a man in a trance.

"I'll take care of it. I'll make sure you're in the right mood," Krycek's soft voice was a caress.

"No," Mulder choked. "I...I mean physically."

Krycek mouthed Mulder's neck, murmuring near his ear, "There are lots of things we can do. Do you want to be on top?"

"No," Mulder swiftly replied.

Understanding instantly Mulder's misgivings, Krycek continued his sensual assault. He nibbled at Mulder's shoulder and purred, "What if you topped from the bottom, so you wouldn't have to worry about all that?"

"I...uh..."

Krycek turned to nuzzle Mulder's ear. "Don't tell me you've never done it before, Mulder."

"I haven't." The agent's voice was a tiny version of his usual, fast-paced delivery.

"Surely women have topped you." Krycek felt Mulder's skin heat and he smiled into his hair.

"Oh. Well, yeah."

"It's not that different," Krycek promised against the musky scent of Mulder's neck. Carefully, he slid a hand between Mulder's legs, cupping the unmistakable swelling there. Krycek stifled a groan as his own swollen dick throbbed with growing need. "It's just tighter...and hotter...and faster, if you want. Or slower. Whatever you want. I'm sure you have an opinion. Do you like it fast or slow, Mulder?"

"Uh, I, um..."

"Yes?" Through the jeans, Krycek massaged Mulder's cock to raging life as counterpoint to his questions.

"I like it slow. But...intense," Mulder managed.

The hand teasing Mulder's cock gripped a little tighter as Krycek promised, "I am *always* intense."

"Yeah, well...that's what I'm afraid of, sort of."

"It's okay. This is for you, Mulder, and I'm not going to forget that."

Krycek fumbled with the zipper of his jacket, shrugged it off, and turned to get at the buttons of Mulder's jeans. Breathing heavily, he reiterated, "This is an apology, not a seduction."

Without warning, a stinging blow jerked his head suddenly to the left. Eyes widening, he realized he'd been bitch-slapped by Mulder. He stared at the other man in shock. Overcome suddenly by the form of revenge Mulder had chosen, Krycek burst into laughter. "I guess I deserved that."

Grinning, Mulder agreed, "I guess you did."

Krycek grasped the taller man's shoulders and said, "Look. Mulder. If you don't want to go all the way, that's okay. There are lots of things in the middle. You'll find them...just as satisfying."

Mulder frowned and sputtered, "I can't believe you. You're not just a rapist, you're a total slut." Lurching from the bed, he paced the room. His rolling strides reminded Krycek of some caged animal restless.

"Oh, come on, Mulder. It's just sex. A blowjob? Okay, a handjob. Please? I just want to make this up to you."

With darkened eyes, Mulder shook his head. "You can't make this up to me. Don't you understand what you *did* to me?" He eased himself into the chair. "You can't make it all go away with cheap thrills." He bent to take his head in his hands, his body beginning a slow, steady rocking. Stopping suddenly, as if realizing just what he was doing, he looked up at Krycek and begged, "Please, Krycek. Just leave me the fuck alone."

Krycek nodded slowly.

He had succeeded in keeping Mulder alive. He had succeeded in escaping his prison. That he failed in his attempt to gift Mulder with his remorse and create some tiny memento for himself, he would have to accept. "Fine," he muttered.

"Fine, what?"

"Fine, I'll leave you alone." He stomped to his bed, removed the bulk of his clothing and lay down.

"Krycek, what are you doing?"

"I've had a long couple of days. I don't give a fuck what time it is, I'm tired." He burrowed deep into the covers and closed his eyes. A few hours rest and it was time for him to go.

*****

"SCULLEEE!!!"

Krycek leapt from the bed, instantly alert and on the defensive. He swept the darkened room. Nothing out of the ordinary.

"NOOO!!!" Mulder screamed from his bed.

Krycek rushed to his side. Not good policy to wake the other motel customers in the middle of the night. He grabbed Mulder's shoulders and shook him hard.

"Mulder!" he hissed.

One hazel eye fluttered wide open and the agent instinctively jerked from Krycek's grasp. "What?" Mulder gasped.

The younger man spread his arms wide to show Mulder he meant no harm. Krycek offered him a sympathetic smile. "It's okay, Mulder. You just had a really bad dream."

Shuddering still from the afterimages of his nightmare, Mulder swiped at his face and tried to pull himself together.

"Mulder, it's okay. It's natural. I'm so sorry." Krycek slid casually onto the bed next to Mulder, reaching an arm around the other man's shoulders to touch him in a gesture of pure comfort. "It's alright. You know, when we were partners, I used to have nightmares. Horrible ones. About men with no eyes coming to shoot me, and even though they didn't have any eyes they were always, always a perfect shot. You know how they tell you if you die in your dreams, you die for real? Well, it's not true, because they killed me over and over, every night, for weeks, and I'm still here."

Mulder calmed, lulled by the quiet rise and fall of Krycek's narration. He tilted his head and asked, "Why didn't you ever tell me?"

Krycek laughed with soft affection, "You were my partner. My senior partner. A psychologist, for God's sake. I'd just gotten my first big break and I wasn't about to fuck it up all by telling *you* that I died repeatedly every night. You would have recommended a leave of absence, wouldn't you?"

"Probably. That would point to some serious traumas you'd need to work out."

Laughing again, Krycek quipped, "Mulder, ever the analyst." He planted an impulsive kiss on Mulder's temple. Recalling Mulder's earlier broken plea to leave him alone, the younger man pulled back, waiting for the other's negative reaction.

Raw hunger in Mulder's eyes and the paradox of tears.

"Mulder?"

Mulder's mouth moved silently.

"Why are you crying?"

"I'm not crying," the agent sniffed, and Krycek pulled Mulder to him, kissing away the bitter salt of Mulder's tears, feeling him in his arms so hot and sweet and *right*. He cupped Mulder's face in his hands and looked hard into his eyes and thought he saw something of his own grief and hope mirrored there. "I want to kiss you so bad right now," Krycek whispered.

"What time is it?" Mulder blurted.

A quick look at the motel's digital and Krycek answered, "Eleven."

Mulder fidgeted with the blanket edges as if they were suddenly the most interesting objects in the world. "Scully will be here at one," he stated softly.

Two hours. He ought to be going. Instead he said, "Okay," and leaned into Mulder, tasting first his lips. They opened with a gently persuasive tongue and Krycek poured all of himself into this one kiss.

My mouth pressing against his full lips. They part beneath my nudging, teasing tongue and I caress the silk within. His tongue dabs tentatively; grows bolder. Shifting patterns of pressure as the kiss feeds off itself, as lips and tongue and touch grow hungrier, wilder.

Yes, he says, and it inflames me. I slide Mulder down deeper into the bed and lay beside him, pulling off his boxers to get to the flesh beneath, tugging off my own clothes to toss them in heaps on the floor. I won't top him; I will not remind him of pain already suffered. I'm holding him so close and his shivering limbs calm beneath my gentle strokes. Kissing him over and over and Ssh, it'll be alright.

A little cry and my heart stops. I will never again take from him that which he does not offer freely. My need hurts and I beg, Mulder-please-let-me.

He's nodding and the tears rise. Hating them, but I know that tears and pain define Fox Mulder and I will not be their cause again.

Easing myself slowly atop him, I wriggle down until his semi-erect penis is in my face and my wet, sloppy mouth slurps it in. You're fixated on that, he says and I answer something nonsensical and plunge once more, tasting salty flesh lengthen on my tongue as I suck, inhaling the musk that is Mulder and there is tickling as my nose buries itself in the patch of curls around his delicious cock. My tongue twirls the crown of Mulder's shaft, goodbye, and I lift myself up.

Straddling Mulder's thighs, I watch his face as he relaxes, offering himself on the altar of shared need. His oddly beautiful face resonates concentration as he holds his cock at the base, Will you hold that for me, I asked? I lift myself over Mulder's thrumming, quivering body and impale myself oh-so-slowly onto his cock, closing my eyes to better experience every millimeter of his length.

Guess it's official, he says and that's alright, it's a damn sight better than the tears and I almost laugh if not for the riot of sensation gathering at the base of my spine. Do you like this, Mulder? I ask, hearing the breathy strain of my voice. I begin my thrusts, long, inverted and hear his strangled Yes and my answering Yes and my hands search to finger his nipples, to trace the lines of his abdomen and with hushed reverence to touch the place where our bodies join.

So slow this way, a gentle rocking. Each brush of his cock against my prostate sends a lazy wave of pleasure through my being and I never want this to end.

A whimper and his eyes become frantic. I don't want to do this, he tells me. The steel in my ass says me otherwise and I increase the speed of my thrusts.

My fingers find his mouth and I caress there, stroking tenderly his bottom lip and he gains himself. Don't want to do what? I ask.

I rock faster and my cock slaps his belly in perfect synchronicity. Mulder's head, tosses side to side in lust and denial and an agonized, Ah...I don't want to...please. My hands slide up the slender torso heaving beneath me. They meet at his throat, glide down that line of his throat, gently pinch a nipple, searching for the spots that will drive all doubt from his mind. Ah!!! I don't want to come like this! He shouts and I stop.

Why not, I ask. You know fucking well why not, he answers up to me. Smiling tenderly, I tell him, I know why you *do* want to come like this, and for this he has no answer -- just a plea. Be gentle.

I begin to thrust slowly again and fire blazes through my cock and my balls--and Oh God, I am too close. My breath roars in my ears and urgently I place one of his hands on the small of my back. He understands and his other hand creeps t my other hip and he is driving me up and down that slick shaft. His moan is tinged with desperation and I say it's okay, Mulder, I'm close, too.

Friction like an inferno and he wants to know... did it feel like this when you were in me?

A thousand times better and a thousand times worse, I say, panting, Oh, Christ Mulder, you've got to -- Jesus... every muscle in my body strains against the waves of sensation and my cock pumps arcs of cum across his chest. I hear my hoarse shout. My hands grip his shoulders as Mulder's fingers dig into my hips and he impales me with his final, paroxysmal plunges.

He's beautiful as he trembles and gasps and begs beneath me. He begs.

I put on my best face and gather him into my arms; holding him, stroking him, rocking him as he weeps in the dark. Tears wet my face as I soothe him to sleep.

*****

Krycek leaned up on one elbow, watching the sleeping form beside him. Time enough for sleep later. For these last moments he studied Mulder; grazing his fingers across the stubbled cheek, memorizing every taste, every texture, every scent.

With terrible reluctance, he rose from the warmth of the bed and the heat that was Mulder, wishing fervently that his mind would just stop, already, not taunt him with impossible desires. Gathering the clothing strewn on the floor and dressing in the dark, Krycek reminded himself that he was free.

All it cost him was another piece of his soul.

"Mulder."

Mulder startled awake. "What!?!"

"It's 12.30."

Mulder sat up, rubbing his eyes and blinking.

"Yeah," Mulder said, still cobwebby from sleep.

"I just, um, I thought I'd better get out of here unless you want me to be here when Scully finds you," Krycek said.

Mulder shut his eyes. "Go," he urged.

Krycek shifted his pack to his back and fastened the middle buckles. "Seriously?" he asked.

Nodding, Mulder swiped his face and muttered, "Don't ask me to explain it."

"Okay, then." Krycek said. He knew it was well past time to run, to save his ass, but he wanted to taste that final sight of Mulder for just one more moment.

"I remember," Mulder offered tonelessly.

"Remember what?"

"I remembered when he raped me. As a kid. The man. Your ex-boss."

Krycek blinked and a jaw muscle flexed as he grit his teeth against a startling black fury threatening to consume him.

"You want a kiss goodbye?" Mulder asked.

"Yeah," he whispered, bending to open his lips to Mulder's lushness, making of this a good-bye. He straightened, nodded to the man who could never be his. Before he closed the door behind him, Krycek hesitated and turned to Mulder. The former confident, intellectual whiz kid who was ready to fight the good fight at a moment's notice had departed; leaving behind a heartbreaking shell of his former self. His bruises, swollen lips and the dark, dark circles beneath his eyes merely accentuated this new expression of...vulnerability, Krycek decided. Mulder could no more hide the emotional strain of these harrowing days than he could stop breathing.

"I'm sorry," he croaked, and was gone.

*****

Krycek crouched in the nearby woods, watching for Scully, needing to be sure Mulder was safe. He was cold, yes, uncomfortable, yes, but he was *free*.

Headlights appeared from the west, flashing as they curved through the wooded backroad. Krycek waited until he identified the Crown Victoria that was Mulder's and Scully's latest ride. The car sped to the motel and screeched to a halt. Scully's tiny form jumped from the car, rushed to the door of Mulder's room and disappeared inside.

Krycek stood, carefully stretching each cramped leg. The world stretched before him, filled with infinite possibilities; possibilities that rang empty without Mulder beside him. He sighed, feeling his throat constrict, wondering if Mulder hated him. In truth he had no real-life context for any of the feelings he had for Mulder or even how to deal with another human on an ordinary level.

He shrugged. Alex Krycek was nothing if not a fast learner.

Gathering his strength, he turned to south and began to walk, head and eyes down, hands buried deep in the pockets of his jacket.

There was one thing, at least, that demanded his immediate attention.

*****

Kanyets!


End file.
